“He’s the captain, that is, the sailing-master under our orders,” Sullivan explained. “You see, none of us knew anything about navigation. He’s a fine old fellow, on the dead square, and hand and glove with us. We’re paying him a small fortune for the run, and he’s the only man aboard, except ourselves, who knows anything of what we’re after.”
The reis came aft deliberately, a finely athletic Arab past middle age, with an aristocratic coffee-coloured face and a short grizzled beard. He was dressed in spotless white, and wore a short sword and dagger in his sash. Henninger conferred aside with him for a few minutes.
“All right,” said the Englishman, returning. “The anchor will be up directly and we’ll be off. High time, too. Meanwhile, I’d like to hear what you’ve been doing, Elliott. I got your letter from Hongkong.”
Elliott thereupon briefly narrated the surprising developments of the past month.
“I see. You were a bold woman to try to hold us up, Miss Laurie,” said Henninger, grimly. “Other people have tried it, but not often twice.”
“There’s a good chance that we’ll be in time, after all,” said Sullivan.
“Of course we will!” Margaret cried. “What’s that?”
It was the rattle as the crew manned the windlass. The chain cable came in grating harshly, and the dhow glided forward and swung round as she was hove short. A couple of Arabs hauled around the big lateen mainsail, and then came aft to perform the same office for the smaller mizzen-sail, while the reis himself took the helm, which was a heavy beam projecting fully ten feet inboard over the stern. The anchor was broken out and came up ponderously against the bows.
“We’re off!” exclaimed Hawke, boyishly.
The dhow began to move slowly down the river under the ebb-tide, and gradually gathered way in the slight breeze from the land,—the dark land of Africa that gloomed behind them. The treasure hunt was really begun.